


Bright Enough To Outshine The Stars

by EmbraceTheFlamingo



Series: Dedicated 'verse [3]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Air Nomad customs (Avatar), Fluff, M/M, Skippable Smut, kids with razorblades, zukaangweek2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:08:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25461454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmbraceTheFlamingo/pseuds/EmbraceTheFlamingo
Summary: “Feeling voyeuristic?” Aang asks, amused, after finishing with his task.Zuko shrugs in lieu of an answer, though he doesn't look away. Aang doesn't mind; if anything, he accepts the lone member of his audience with grace.Zukaang Week 2020 ● Day 4 (nsfw): Voyeur
Relationships: Aang/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: Dedicated 'verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1841986
Comments: 24
Kudos: 149
Collections: Zukaang Week 2020





	Bright Enough To Outshine The Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_cloud_whisperer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_cloud_whisperer/gifts).



> today i chose the nsfw prompt for Zukaang Week 2020 because it was about time the pining mess that is zuko finally got some. this is set in the Dedicated universe, but you don't need to have read the other parts to understand it. here you have it, folks! my entry for day 4: voyeur.
> 
> if you want to avoid the smut, just stop at the line of asterisks.
> 
> i began writing this story months ago; it was meant to be a birthday gift for the_cloud_whisperer, a companion piece of sorts to her amazing [One Hundred and Twenty Light-Years](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17130461). i never got around to complete it because i felt too insecure, but this week has inspired me to be more daring with my writing. so, Cloud gets today's sfw prompt too: surprise! happy unbirthday, my dear ♥

The guest room of the royal palace sits untouched.

There had been some raised eyebrows and not-so-subtly concerned questioning in the past; the Avatar spending the night in the Fire Lord's personal chamber can easily be classified as 'unthinkable scandal', after all. That was years ago, though, and they'd given up after getting acquainted with Aang's presence.

Mindful of his own role and cares for formalities in his charming, Air Nomad way, always respectful of people and their titles but never sacrificing his own authentic voice or the bonds he cherishes, Aang has earned the good graces of even the sternest of Zuko's advisors.

Having Aang in the palace is, quite aptly, a breath of fresh air for Zuko. Weren't it for the topics they sometimes discussed, now touching diplomatic issues and fixing what the war had broken, it could almost seem like no time has passed since they traveled the world together learning firebending and falling into each other's life seamlessly. They resist the urge to stay up all night talking, but just barely. Words ebb and flow until one of them—usually Aang—forces them to rest.

Sharing their sleeping space, too, is a wink to their past when they camped together... except now it's a choice, and it feels a lot like healing. After all, why spend the night apart, when they can take advantage of the precious, rare time to actually be together?

Zuko covets waking up with Aang and picking up their conversations from where they left them. It reminds him that he has a best friend who cares about what he says even when he strips himself of his royal robes, when the Golden Flame is not sitting on his head to signal his status and authority.

It reminds him that he's loved, that Aang loves him. And even if he often finds himself pining for Aang like a lovesick fool, wanting things that he's not sure how to articulate, it never overpowers this intense relief.

Most of his days, Zuko accumulates worries that pile into towers that threaten to swallow him whole. Despite having been trained to be a leader, and having enough citizens and advisors praising his work and dedication to restoring their nation, the scathing comments in his head that point out each and every slip-up with a cruel sneer are very loud and very convincing.

But self-hatred can't reach Zuko now that Aang is with him, too overpowered by the strength of his luminous presence. As his native element, Aang is pure life in Zuko's lungs.

Reveling in this comfort, savoring the sound of steady breathing next to him, Zuko sleeps.

The loud chirping of birds wakes Zuko up before the sun has properly risen. He grumbles, unwilling to accept to be conscious at such an early hour on one of the rare days he has the morning free of official duties.

Reality doesn't bend as easily as fire, and he's forced to swallow the bitter pill of his awakened state.

The other side of the bed is empty, but still vaguely warm. Passing a hand through the tangles in his long hair, Zuko sighs and beelines towards the en-suite bathroom in search for a comb. He peeks through the door; unsurprisingly, he finds Aang in front of the sink, shirtless and bathed in candlelight, humming quietly as he fills a basin with water.

“Hey.”

“Good morning!” Aang says.

Zuko grumbles a “'morning” in response, reaching for his comb and starting the process of getting through the tangled knots in his hair. It soothes him, a simple process while he shakes off the last shadows of sleep.

After finishing with the basin, Aang rummages into a bag on the floor and picks up a small bottle that, when uncapped, spreads a strong herbal aroma in the room.

“What's that?” Zuko says, wrinkling his nose. The smell isn't unpleasant, but it's intense; a mix of leaves and earth, like forest soil after days of heavy rain.

Aang answers by going through his bag again and extracting a razor, waving it at Zuko eloquently. _Shaving oil?_

_Makes sense_ , Zuko considers. And also, isn't it weird that in all the time he spent with his friend, and especially when they were travelling together and saving the world, he's never seen Aang shave? He must have had done it often, since his head was always appropriately smooth except when he chose to grow his hair out to go incognito in the Fire Nation. Then again, Aang has always been an early riser, and this time Zuko's caught him by chance during what appears to be his morning grooming routine. He watches, transfixed, as Aang places the bottle over the sink and conjures a stone to sharpen the blade with rhythmic, practiced movements.

“Feeling voyeuristic?” Aang asks, amused, after finishing with his task.

Zuko shrugs in lieu of an answer, though he doesn't look away. Aang doesn't mind; if anything, he accepts the lone member of his audience with grace.

The same grace Aang does everything with. Despite his outward sunny nature, the core energy that he emanates is steady, an endless flow of calm, warm like the hugs he gives.

Zuko still doesn't look away when Aang begins to shave his face. It feels like a meditative state; mind completely devoid of rational thought, Zuko studies every gesture, every curve, every glimpse of light reflecting on the blade, every expression that Aang makes as he checks his handiwork in the mirror.

_Voyeuristic, indeed._

Struck by that odd inspiration usually reserved for dark hours of the night, Zuko stops his combing and blurts out, “Let me.”

“...Let you?” Aang questions curiously, eyebrows raised.

“Let me shave you,” Zuko says. The words leave his mouth to hang out in the space between them and it hits him then what an absurd request it is, how intimate, to shave someone else, and fuck, he's made it really weird now, hasn't he? What was he thinking?

Aang meets his eyes in the mirror. “Will I survive the blood loss?” he says, teasingly.

“I shave my face. This can't be that hard,” Zuko replies. He hopes so, at least. While he indeed does shave his beard every other day—it itches, which has less to do with the stubble and more with how it ages his features, making them too close to his father's—, he can't feel the pressure of the blade on another person's skin as he does on his own. Also, the half-assed attempt at humor is the anchor that steadies Zuko while he processes the fact that Aang has taken this outlandish idea and ran with it without a care in the world.

What if he cuts Aang? He wouldn't be able to forgive himself for hurting him, even if it's the kind of small injury that a bit of salve can heal in a heartbeat. Aang has already suffered so much because of Zuko's bad ideas, and—he doesn't want to go there, he doesn't, but fuck if it isn't a worry that itches often at the periphery of his mind, that he will mess up at some point, make some irreparable, unsalvageable atrocity that will make Aang cut him off from his life forever.

Running a hand through his tangle-free hair, Zuko admits, “Perhaps it's best if you do it. I was just... curious, I guess.”

“I don't think so, you said it and now you'll do it.” He finishes with the last retouches, then washes the razor in the basin before holding it out to Zuko.

Zuko snorts. “Fair enough.” He cautiously takes the blade.

“Would you like me to guide you?” Aang says.

“What?”

“Really. Once you understand the right way to hold the razor, the curve of the head is easy to follow. No sharp angles or tricky corners like in the rest of the face.”

Zuko is not entirely convinced. “How do you manage on your own with the back of your head, anyway?”

The fondness in Aang's smile spans the distance of a hundred years. “Lots of practice. I've been doing this since I was eight. It's one of the rites of passage in Air Nomad tradition.”

“Oh.” A wave of insecurity submerges Zuko, as usual when the topic falls on Aang's heritage. No matter how much time has passed or that he wasn't even born, he doesn't feel like he should be allowed into the sacred space where those memories are held, not tainted as he is with his own ancestors' crimes.

Nevertheless, Aang shines from soft light and gentle remembrance, and it makes Zuko's heart do clenching and pumping things. “Me and the other kids my age had been given dull blades to learn the motions for weeks; the general consensus was that it was immensely boring, but when confronted with having to do it for real without skinning ourselves you can bet that we were grateful for having gone through the routine.”

“Eight years old seems a little too young to handle razorblades.”

“Living on top of a cliff, we had to get acquainted with the concept of danger from the moment we were able to stand and run around by ourselves, airbenders or not. It only takes a slip and down the mountain you go. Our masters were strict about that kind of discipline.” Aang scrunches his nose. “Even master Gyatso, and he was rarely strict about anything.”

Zuko isn't sure what to do with this particular, terrifying piece of information. He pictures a miniature Aang being lectured about not wanting to meet his gory death and it's so weird and... un-Aangly.

He shakes his head. “So. Razors. At eight years old.”

“Yes. It was scary, but we managed. And if a bunch of kids can do it, so can you,” Aang adds with a wink.

“A bunch of _trained_ kids,” Zuko points out.

“Do you want to try or not? It's okay if you changed your mind.”

“...Fine,” Zuko says. In truth, and Aang knows it, his competitive streak has been tickled.

“First of all, oil,” Aang announces, so relaxed he doesn't even bother to pick it up himself. He looks like this is a spa day that he desires to enjoy thoroughly.

Zuko obediently picks up the bottle, placing the razor in its place. The scent hits Zuko's nostrils up close, familiar even though he can't pinpoint what the ingredients are. His uncle has been the one with the plant expertise, and Zuko had refused to learn anything as one of his—uncomfortably too many—pointless rebellions, even during the part of his exile when his life would have benefited from the knowledge.

“Do you make it yourself?”

“Yup. Some stuff is a bit tricky to get a hold onto when I'm travelling, so I tweak it as needed.”

Sniffing the contents in hope of some inkling as to their origins, Zuko says, “Another bit of tradition?”

“Actually, this one isn't. There were Air Nomads who made this kind of stuff, obviously, but it was a skill only acquired by some.” With a wave of his hand, he dismisses further questions before Zuko could open his mouth. “Now, get to work and spread that on my head. Make me aaaall slippery.”

Zuko blushes, side-tracked by the phrasing. Right. He asked for this. “Can't you do it by yourself?”

“Absolutely not. It's my job as your guide, you see, to have you go through the whole process from beginning to end.” He has his worst innocent face on, the one that no single person believes in but that's also somehow more powerful than a herd of moose lions.

“A lot of words when you could have just said 'I'm lazy' instead,” Zuko says in a valiant effort to resist the effects of The Face, tickling Aang on the side of his neck.

“How dare you,” Aang beams, squirming to avoid the touch.

Having exhausted his excuses for stalling, Zuko gets to work with applying the oil on Aang's head; he focuses on the action, on reaching every area, on using the proper pressure and being even. The herbal scent is surprisingly soothing.

Aang hums contentedly. “Now, the razor—yes, good. Hold it this way,” he explains with a particular bend of his wrist, “and shave.”

Armed with a sharp blade and dubious stubbornness, Zuko follows, steady as he can be. He guides the blade and it effortlessly slides from Aang's hairline to the top of his head, leaving behind a trail of smooth skin.

It sinks in how easily he could slip, how much control he has to assert to not cause damage. A great amount of trust has been placed in his hands and he's not sure he's up to the task of keeping his friend safe. He's not sure he's capable of anything useful.

He adjusts the hold to compensate for his clammy hands. “It's not that bad,” he says, a little unsteadily.

“The hardest parts are those around the ears, but you have the advantage of actually seeing what you're doing so you shoundn't have much to worry about.”

“I still don't understand how you can do this on your own,” Zuko says, focusing his attention on the curve of the side of Aang's head. The ear is a bit tricky. With gentle pressure of his fingers, he prompts Aang to incline his head.

“As I've said, practice.”

The scent of the oil—could there be a hint of mint?—, coupled with the steadfast precision of Zuko's motions, lulls Aang and Zuko into a comfortable silence.

Zuko'd expected to need more directions and guidance, but he doesn't. Perhaps he's starting to get the hang of this; all things considered, the process is simpler than it seemed at first, and the adjustment required to handle the blade has ceased to be awkward after the first few careful minutes.

There's something nice in having to re-learn an old habit, having to put real attention again into gestures that have long become engrained and automatic.

When Zuko shaves himself, it's a thing he does. Trivial. Utilitaristic. But then, he's not surprised that something as mundane as shaving is bound to turn into a whole different experience once Aang is involved. Watching his friend's relaxed expression in the mirror, Zuko has full awareness that this is how it is with Aang: despite of all his world-saving endeavours, he shines the most in the smallest, appearingly insignificant acts.

Like closing his eyes in contented bliss as his old enemy wets his head and puts a razor to his skin, uncaring of Zuko's mistakes, of his twisted past. Like that sort of earth-shattering vulnerability is as natural to him as blinking.

“You're good,” Aang sighs.

_You too. Way too much, sometimes._ “Thank you,” Zuko says, his concentration slipping—and his hand with it. Horrified, he witnesses a cut making its bleeding appearance. “Fuck!”

Aang exhales loudly.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” Zuko panics, throwing the razor across the room. There should be a box somewhere in his bedroom, a medical kit, maybe he should call someone, he doesn't know shit about healing anyway, fuck what has he done, he shouldn't have done this—

Aang's reached to the top of his head to poke around the bleeding cut. “Ouch. Stings,” he laments theatrically.

“Stop that,” Zuko hisses in terror, scrambling around for whatever it is that can fix the situation right now in this second.

Rolling his eyes, Aang says, “Yeah, yeah.” From the basin he's used to wash himself before Zuko's arrival he draws a ribbon of water, tracing an arc that ends gracefully on his wound. It rests there in a small dome and glows, emitting a brief wave of coolness, before slipping down the sink like nothing happened.

Zuko's barely keeping himself from fainting.

“Just a nick,” Aang says with a shrug.

“It shouldn't have been there in the first place,” Zuko half yells, half chokes. “And don't roll your eyes at me, I can see you!” There's no trace of blood, no evidence of what just happened, what Zuko has done; yet, he stares at the undamaged patch of skin like it's about to split in a fanged mouth and eat Aang alive.

“Care to find the razor? I kind of don't dig this style,” Aang says, pointing to the still unshaven patches of hair. “I can finish myself if you don't feel like it—most of the job is done anyway.”

As usual, Aang is offering relief, comfort, a way out of Zuko's fucked-upness. And, as usual, Zuko can't find it in himself to take the proffered proverbial hand.

Deep in a firebender's belly lies the breath that fuels their flame. Zuko taps into it, reaching his center; his forces his legs stop threatening to give out, squares his shoulder, declares, “No, I'll do it,” and sets off to find the blasted blade. There was no point in all this if he doesn't at the very least get through the end.

Why did he throw it away? What's with the urge to just throw things when he's panicked? He paces in front of the wall where the razor should supposedly be, checking the floor in the spaces behind decorative vases and plants. Finally, a glint of light reflects on his prize, and Zuko takes it back in celebration to where Aang's perched on the stool, smiling.

“Amazing. Unstoppable,” Aang cheers.

Zuko flicks him on one ear. “Shut up,” he says, and picks up from where he's left.

After a minute of serious contemplation from various angles and a few retouches here and there, Zuko declares himself satisfied with the result of his work. He washes the razor under the tap and wets a cloth; he cleans Aang's head with it, wiping away the last stray traces of hair and oil.

“Do you put stuff on your skin at this point? Salve or something?” Zuko asks. The feeling of contemplative calm has returned, leaving him in a pleasant bubble of nothingness, his only care to complete the task at hand and do it well. His hands are on Aang's shoulders, fingertips mindlessly tracing his collarbones back and forth.

“Mmm,” Aang answers, looking for all the world like a lizard-snake after an afternoon of sunbathing, “yes, but I don't have my usual salve now. You can use the same oil if you want.”

“Will it work?”

“Of course. It's why I bring it with me when I'm not home. I usually use different ones because they smell nice and I like to give myself a head massage when I'm finished.”

“I didn't know you liked to spoil yourself so much,” Zuko says, even as he moves his thumbs to trace lazy circles on the back of Aang's neck.

Aang, in full unapologetic spirit, leans into the touch. “Can't have balance of mind and spirit if the body isn't taken care of properly.”

Can't argue with that. Not one to ruin an enjoyable ritual, Zuko proceeds with the massage until Aang is absurdly pliant under his fingers. “Don't fall asleep on me,” he warns, busy with finding all the right spots.

Aang sighs dreamily. “You know, I'm thinking that you should do this all the time. I can just come here and have you pamper me every day.”

“A bit unfeasible, with my Fire Lord stuff and your Avatar stuff in the way.”

“You're no fun.”

“I'm practical.”

“You didn't say that you don't want to,” Aang notes. He's still teasing, but only in part, like he's now treading more delicate waters.

Zuko's hands don't interrupt their soothing work. “I wouldn't mind.” It's something he could get used to, too easily, and it bothers him less than it would be advisable to. This warmth, the uncomplicated openness of these touches, this giving and receiving of care, would slide into place in their life without a single hitch, and the awareness of it is... tingly. All over.

“Wouldn't you, now,” Aang says. The calm intensity of his gaze is devastating, and his voice is too.

There's so much of them. In their shared past, yes, and their present for sure when they manage to align their duties, but what about their shared future? Zuko wants moments like these, when it's the two of them existing in each other's space, this particular rush that never seems to get old. Gods, he's so far gone.

Being around Aang is an odd struggle of non-opposing forces. They just pull at Zuko to get closer, get deeper, get _more_ , and he finds himself balancing on the slight edge between surrender and wanting to act and speak and feel.

And then there's that expression on Aang's face, like Zuko is the most amazing thing since the invention of gliders. _That_ feels quite tingly, too.

Quietly, Zuko confesses, “I don't know what we're doing.” He wishes he could be more eloquent.

“You rarely do,” Aang says. The words might have stung, yet any trace of accidental cruelty is swept away by the playful smile that accompanies them. “And, for the record, it's okay. You don't have to.” After delicately taking Zuko's hands away from where they rested on his shoulders, Aang stands and turns to face him.

He's taller than Zuko; has been for a while, though not by much. Releasing one of the the hands he was still holding, Aang caresses Zuko's face, his temple, his cheek, his jaw, his neck, and there he grips steadily as he places a kiss on his lips.

Zuko kisses back, and he knows now that this is what they're doing, pressing their bodies together and sliding arms behind the other's back and neck to bridge the distance that for years has been destined to be crossed.

There's no need for air when they can have this; it's bliss and need, overflowing and uniting them through touch.

All this time, and the answer was so simple.

After their mouths part, Zuko whispers, “How did you know?”

“That you wanted to kiss me?” Zuko nods, cueing Aang to continue. “I wanted to. And as I thought about it I realized that you looked like you did too, so I decided that at some point we had to stop dancing around the issue and just get on with it.”

Zuko huffs. “You make it sound simple.”

“Wasn't it, though?” says Aang, stealing a kiss and then another for good measure. And it does feel simple, natural, like the sun rising every day, like any of the million things they've shared.

“Once it was done, yes, of course, everything's easy with hindsight, and anyway, how did you know that _you_ wanted to kiss me?”

“Are you seriously asking me that?”

“Yes,” Zuko says impatiently, aware of sounding like a capricious child and not caring in the least. Aang has some explaining to do.

With a chuckle, Aang says, “Well, you're very kissable. Nice lips, all that.”

“Yes, but—how long, Aang?”

“I'm sorry to inform you of the fact that I don't keep a detailed journal of my feelings towards you—”

“Ha ha, very funny—”

“—and even if I did, there was no definite moment. It's you, Zuko... you've always been fascinating to me, the connection between us has always been there, and kisses don't make it different.”

This has been going on for years, and Zuko didn't notice? “I can't decide if I'm really oblivious or you're a master of nonchalance.”

“I'm the Avatar. I'm the master of _everything_.”

Zuko shakes his head, grinning. “Unbelievable. All of this.”

“Mmm. And you're usually not up this early.” Aang slides his mouth down on Zuko's neck, with a hint of tongue that makes Zuko shiver. “We should go back to bed.”

***

It takes little effort to discard the few clothes they were wearing. They care about nothing else but each other, roaming hands caressing everywhere they can reach, and they fall back on the bed in a tangle of limbs, laughing.

Lying on top of rumpled sheets under his most beloved, bared in body, heart and soul, Zuko wants to give Aang everything. He wants Aang to take it.

Aang's hands are steady as they settle on Zuko's hips, thumbs tracing gentle circles, a calm belied by the twin silvery storms held in his eyes. How can he be so in control, Zuko wonders in a haze, while he's on the brink of unraveling from such a simple touch.

Of course, they've been dancing around each other for years, starting from that day where their fates intertwined in front of shining dragons, feeding into their connection until it turned into attraction somewhere along the way. A lot of control is necessary to keep up with the building tension this long, and holding onto it for a minute longer would prolong the sweetness of finally giving in.

Zuko's no monk, though, and he's not famous for his patience.

He pulls Aang in, hips to hips, and the texture of Aang's flushed skin on his is a soft shock to his system, like he could feel every point of contact as an independent sensation of its own—a riot in the making.

“I love it when you look at me like that,” Aang breathes in his ear, biting the lobe and licking the shell, and fuck, the warm wetness is heavenly, “like you can't get enough, like I'm the single most important thing in your world.”

Because you are. The smell of oil fills Zuko's senses; he lets his hands wander over Aang's strong shoulders, down to his biceps and then his chest, his sides—Aang's ticklish, Zuko knows, but only squirms a little—, his ass, his thighs. It's wonderfully overwhelming, how much Zuko can touch now that he's allowed. He rolls them over, ending up on top.

Smiling that smile of his, Aang stretches his arms over his head and spreads his legs just so, offering an enticing view of his nakedness.

Zuko can't help but admire the erotic display. Gods, you tease. He retaliates by taking a hard nipple in his mouth and sucking, satisfied when a moan leaves Aang's throat and his hips raise to search for contact with Zuko's again. Yes, more of that would be nice. He wants Aang completely undone.

He mercilessly bites on Aang's shoulder, then lets his index finger lightly trace over his cock, root to tip.

“Fuck, yes,” Aang breathes, arching his back shamelessly. “Please.”

“So polite,” Zuko teases. He doesn't answer the unspoken request yet, choosing to caress the sensitive skin of Aang's inner thighs, the soft hair there, instead.

Aang props himself up on one elbow and cards his fingers through Zuko's hair before gripping it and pulling Zuko down in a scorching kiss.

The twin fires burning deep in their cores call for each other, rise up their spines, intermingle through their shared breaths to feed each other, until it feels like they are fusing their essences in a single, glorious embrace.

More, more, more. Zuko needs friction before he loses himself. There's oil in his nightstand, the one he uses for his personal enjoyment; he reaches for it with unsteady hands, never taking his eyes and mouth away from Aang.

A quick move and Aang steals the bottle from him, pouring oil in his palm and letting it drip over his own cock. “Come here,” he says.

It's Zuko's turn to moan as he slides his length along Aang's slippery one. Fuck, this is divine.

Aang pours more oil over them both; he starts to roll his hips in a languid pace and it's everything, how he draws Zuko impossibly closer and impossibly right. His fingers digging in Zuko's hips amplify the feeling, guiding him, keeping them grounded in reality as they take their pleasure in finding each other's sweet spots, the perfect fit of their bodies.

They reach their climax like this, almost as an afterthought amidst the intensity.

Aang leaves a kiss on Zuko's collarbone. “You're gorgeous.”

“Mmm,” Zuko says drowsily, too boneless and sated to disagree. He never wants to leave the bed again, not if he can keep Aang here like this.

Alas, they have obligations.

This morning is theirs, though, and Zuko fully intends to cherish every second he spends with Aang in his arms. Obligations can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> proper endings? i don't know her
> 
> thank you for reading!


End file.
